


Three Novembers

by EmmyAngua



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, NaNoWriMo, Online Relationship, Writer!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 20:50:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1955688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmyAngua/pseuds/EmmyAngua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>November is the best time of year for John and Sherlock, because November is National Novel Writing Month and they can talk to each other on the NaNoWriMo forums. But on the first of December every year Sherlock vanishes, leaving John wondering just who his online friend really is. Novelist!AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Novembers

**Author's Note:**

> Trillsabells gave me a prompt for a Writing!AU where S/J meet on a writing forum and possibly meet for real at a book signing. This lead to my realisation that it was high time this fandom had a NaNoWriMo!AU. 
> 
> Thank you to hechicera for the super-fast beta job.

 November 2010

 

John’s first contact with Death_Frisbee on the NaNoWriMo forums was due to his name.

 

 

**To: Death_Frisbee**

So you’re a Jim Moriarty fan too? Hope the word count is going well.

 

 

Of course there are millions of Jim Moriarty fans out there. The release of a new Jim Moriarty book makes the actual evening news and thousands of people queue outside bookshops to get their hands on the latest in the Sebastian Moran series about a former soldier who solves impossible mysteries. The username stands out from the mass of ‘ _MoriartyLuvr_ ’ and ‘ _MyManisMoran’_ names because it’s a very obscure reference to one of Moriarty’s earliest books, one of John’s favourites.

 

 

**To: Afghan_Jumper**

You could say that. Wordcount 80k. DF

 

 

Death_Frisbee’s word count startles John. It’s only four days into November’s annual challenge to write a fifty-thousand word novel in a month. Death_Frisbee must have so far clocked up twenty-thousand words per day.

 

 

**To: Death_Frisbee**

Wow. Do you even sleep?

 

**To: Afghan_Jumper**

Not when I’m writing. The work comes first. DF

 

 

John friends Death_Frisbee but really expects the interaction to end there. NaNoWriMo’s forums and message system may be fun, but he’s there to write a novel of his own and he certainly isn’t anywhere near his target yet.

To his surprise he receives a message from Death_Frisbee the next day. It’s a list of questions about the army. He frowns as he reads it.

 

**To: Death_Frisbee**

How did you know I was in the army?

 

 

**To: Afghan_Jumper**

Username. Hints in your bio. DF

 

 

John re-reads his bio and finds nothing that suggests he was ever in the army other than his username.

 

 

**To: Death_Frisbee**

Clever. I’ll send the answers over in a bit (I’m always happy to procrastinate from actual writing.)

 

 

**To: Afghan_Jumper**

Thank you. You’re writing erotic fiction? DF

 

 

**To: Death_Frisbee**

Don’t laugh. Yeah, it was suggested that I should try and write for relaxation. My sister-in-law runs a publishing company for gay and lesbian erotica and suggested I had a go at that. If I write anything good enough she might take it on.

 

 

**To: Afghan_Jumper**

Probably best that you don’t tell your therapist that you’re writing porn instead of the wishy-washy feelings rubbish she’s no doubt expecting. DF

 

 

**To: Death_Frisbee**

I never mentioned a therapist.

 

 

**To: Afghan_Jumper**

I’m a writer. Reading between the lines is what I do. DF

 

 

That’s the end of the conversation until the seventh day (John has clocked up fifteen-thousand words and is feeling pretty pleased with himself.) He smiles as another message pops up in his inbox.

 

 

**To: Afghan_Jumper**

Thank you for your help. The novel is finished so I won’t be on here until next year. If you have something ready by then I would be happy to beta read it. DF

 

 

**To: Death_Frisbee**

You’re done? Already?!

 

 

**To: Afghan_Jumper**

I plan a great deal in advance. I devote the first week of November to the boring task of writing it all down. National Novel Writing Month is just a tool to help me focus. Let me know if you have something ready for me to read next year. DF

 

 

\--

 

 

John doesn’t think about Death_Frisbee a great deal over the rest of the month. He finishes his fifty thousand words (all terrible) and spends the December afterwards feeling proud of the achievement and relieved that he has something to tell Ella about his life (he does briefly remember Death_Frisbee’s comment when carefully avoiding telling her what he wrote about.)

Christmas passes and Clara prods him about the novel to the point that John makes editing it his New Year’s Resolution.

By June, John is halfway done. He doesn’t work constantly on it, but he goes back to it one or two evenings a week when the boredom is driving him up the wall. He has a notebook full of new ideas which he’s planning to write and he makes October his goal for finishing the edit. He does remember Death_Frisbee’s offer, but doubts very much that he or she really meant it. It’s easy to forget a polite promise in the space of a year.

June also brings some excitement because the new Jim Moriarty book is released. John goes to the midnight release street party because he wants the book and because it adds a little interest to his generally dull days.

It’s a great one. Moran’s army days are explored in more detail than ever before when his old commander is accused of murder. The relationship between Moran and the commander is entirely non-sexual, but John is getting better at reading between the lines and wakes up the next morning hard, lost in a vivid dream that half memory and half fantasy in which he’s Sebastian, completely at the mercy of his commander…

He fills almost five pages of his idea notebook with sleepy scribbles.

 

\--

 

November 2011

 

John logs into the NaNoWriMo website three days before November begins. He’s full of ideas for his next story and raring to go. His last story – his _novel_ , he thinks with a thrill – is almost done. He’s planning to send it to Clara this December as proof that he’s fulfilled his promise to her.

He only really remembers Death_Frisbee when he looks through his inbox and sees the old messages. When November begins John notices that Death_Frisbee racks up a high word count at once. Nearly twenty thousand a day again. On the seventh day the word count stops and John assumes that Death_Frisbee has finished again.

To his surprise the eighth day brings a message from Death_Frisbee.

 

 

**To: Afghan_Jumper**

I’ve finished writing. I can read your novel now. I assume you’ve finished it? DF

 

 

**To Death_Frisbee**

Uh, yes. I didn’t think you remembered.

 

 

**To Afghan_Jumper**

You answered vital questions for me. I promised to review your work. Did you believe I wouldn’t keep my promise? DF

 

 

John has nothing to lose. He sends the file to the email address provided and thanks Death_Frisbee for looking it over. He goes back to his own novel and focuses on his word count.

A response comes at the end of the month.

 

**To:[afghanjumper@google.com](mailto:afghanjumper@google.com)**

_Here’s the document back._

_I enjoyed it a surprising amount. I normally have little time for erotic fiction, especially Victorian, but your writing is powerful and it helps that I found the military aspect engaging. Your writing is somewhat flowery in places but overall I found little to criticise._

_DF_

 

 

John reads through the notes and is surprised at how useful he finds them. Annoyingly it means that he will have to rush to make the changes before showing Clara to finished work, but he’s generally pleased.

 

**To:[deathfrisbee@google.com](mailto:deathfrisbee@google.com)**

_Thank you. Your notes have been very helpful. I’m more than happy to return the favour, though I’m not much of an expert._

_I meant to ask what you thought of the new Moriarty book? If you’ve got a military kink there must’ve been plenty for you to like about that last novel!_

 

 

**To:[afghanjumper@google.com](mailto:afghanjumper@google.com)**

_I don’t require my work to be read by anyone._

_Yes I read the last Moriarty book. It frustrated me. It didn’t go in the direction I would have preferred._

_DF_

 

**To:[deathfrisbee@google.com](mailto:deathfrisbee@google.com)**

_If it’s the direction I think you mean (judging by the fact you’re happy to edit gay erotica for a stranger) then I sympathise. There was plenty of subtext but let’s be honest, millions of people don’t line the streets to buy novels about gay detectives._

 

 

**To:[afghanjumper@google.com](mailto:afghanjumper@google.com)**

_I am very much aware of that._

_DF_

 

 

\--

 

 

John wasn’t expecting to be published.

That’s not to say he’s been published in the way most people would imagine. There’s no book deal, not a lot of money, and ninety per cent of the sale will be in e-format rather than hardcopy, but Clara is pleased enough to add him to her bank of writers and John has a certain amount of fun watching his work being made ready for publication.

He becomes one of Clara’s pet projects (though he’s under no illusions that part of it isn’t because she then has an excuse to hear about Harry via him) and she’s keen to get his name out there.

“You’re actually good at this John,” she tells him over a bottle of wine. “Yeah, you might only get a couple of hundred quid out of it now, but you could write mainstream stuff if you wanted in the long-term. You just need to get your name out there.”

It’s to this end that she phones him in April.

“John, good news! You know we’ve got a stall at the big book festival in July? Well the management want you to be there, they’re going to be promoting the hell out of your work. We’re gonna hype you up big style online and really get your name out there in the niche market…”

John can’t think of anything he wants to do less than sign pornographic books in front of a large group of people, and says so.

“Oh come on,” Clara scolds. “This will be great for both of us. It’ll mean more sales for you and get you to meet the right people. Besides Jim Moriarty’s going to be doing a Q and A so the place will be like a cross between Glasto and a Justin Bieber concert.”

Clara’s mean for playing the Jim Moriarty card, because she knows it will get John’s attention.

“Can you get me into his Q and A?” he asks.

He can hear her smile down the phone. “Already done, my darling.”

 

 

\--

 

 

The festival isn’t so bad. It’s as if a small city of tents has been built overnight, like some sort of literary army camp. Everyone seems to be promoting a book and John’s voice is a relatively small one. Clara’s got several stands dotted around the festival, and John finds every excuse he can to stay away from the male erotica section. It’s full of the sort of people he imagines writing erotic fiction and even fuller of the sort of people he imagines buying it. They all seem to be walking encyclopaedias of sexual acts.

It’s a relief to be away from them for the Q and A session.

The tent is bubbling over with excitement. There’s no one type of person there: teenage girls squeal from one row while elderly men clutch at battered copies of Moriarty’s books in another. Several men and women are dressed in Moran’s trademark leather jacket and carry replicas of his gun and dagger weapon combo.

When Moriarty is announced, the applause is thunderous and a slight man skips onto the platform.

John has seen Moriarty’s picture before, in the paper and in television interviews, but he’s surprised at how small the man is and how young he looks. He’s dressed like a film star in a designer suit and looks completely at ease with all the attention.

It begins with a reading of the soon-to-be-released book (Sebastian’s sister Violet is going undercover as a teacher to help him solve a beheading at a boy’s school) and John can’t help the grin that forms as he listens to that soft Irish accent read. He knows it’s going to be brilliant, knows that – as always – all the little clues and small touches will come together to explode in one perfect solution that no one could ever guess.

The Q and A session begins with Moriarty sat in an armchair. He takes a question from a woman in red.

“Will Sir Owen Peters be returning in this book?” she asks. “And do you feel there’s still parts of his story with Sebastian you’ve yet to tell?

Sir Owen is Sebastian’s retired commander. John is very much hoping he is to return and more than a little interested in the veiled question about Sebastian’s sexual history with Sir Owen.

Moriarty shrugs. “He’s not returning in this book, though he might at a later date. He’s been Seb’s friend for many years, so there’s a whole goldmine of stories there.”

Neatly sidestepped. A few more questions (on location and character names) before someone has another try.

“Do you feel Sebastian might have had a sexual relationship with Sir Owen at some point?”

Even from the back John can see the tension from Moriarty at this question.

“Sexuality is the most boring thing on earth,” he snaps. “He can sleep with men, women, or goats for all I care, only the mysteries matter.”

There is a ripple of noise from the crowd as they react and there is a little hesitation when the next question is called for.

John surprises himself by standing up. It’s neutral question, one that can’t annoy Moriarty.

“I was just wondering what you thought of National Novel Writing Month and how it compares to your own methods?”

Moriarty actually sneers.

“That’s that thing amateurs do, isn’t it? They like it because they don’t actually have to be any good.”

 

\--

 

“A complete jerk,” John is complaining later, back at the tent with Clara. “I mean, why do people like him so much?”

“For exactly the same reason you’re ranting about him now. He’s controversial and exciting. He’s good at getting people talking. And he’s a damn good writer.”

“Well he’s lost one reader.”

“Because he slagged off that November thing? John, he’s not alone in that opinion.”

“No, because he acted like that about every question. Cold and superior, like he was a god among mortals. I won’t be buying his next book.”

“You will.”

“Well, probably. But I’ll think nasty things while I read it.”

“In other interviews he’s lovely. Maybe he had a bad day, or he wanted to whip up some gossip. Which is what _you_ should be doing if you want to sell books.”

John looks around at the people in the tent. One woman (in her sixties) is topless and a man is dressed as a sexy nun.

“Clara there is absolutely nothing I could do that would shock the people in this tent.”

“I told you, it’s a niche market,” Clara shrugs. “There’s no need to act like a prude; it’s not like you’re a stranger to sex yourself. Though I must admit… some of what you wrote made even me blush!”

Laughing, she turns to a man who is standing by the stall.

“Hear that?” she says. “This man wrote a book about male sex that made me – a lesbian and hardened erotica publisher – hot and bothered and very shocked. If that’s not a reason to buy his book, what is?”

She picks up one of the copies and passes it to the man, who opens the first page.

This is the bit John has discovered he hates the most: standing nearby as someone opens his book and examines the contents. He’s not sure what’s worst: when they like it and buy it with a knowing look at him, or when it doesn’t appeal and they wordlessly put it back down.

To John’s surprise, the man does neither of these things.

He’s not the usual type of person in here. He’s wearing a nice suit and a big coat that must be far too warm for July and makes John wonder if he’s dressed as a character from something. He’s tall and more than a little sexy.

When he’s ready the first page he frowns and re-examines the book cover and blurb. He looks John over as well.

“You wrote this?”

John nods. He rather wants this man to like it.

“Hmm.”

Wordlessly the man reaches for his wallet, hands Clara a twenty, and strides out of the tent before she can even get any change.

“And you didn’t think anything could surprise you in this tent,” she says, handing John the twenty. “I wonder who on earth he is?”

 

 

\--

November 2012

 

 

To John’s surprise, a message is waiting for him when he returns to his NaNoWriMo profile on October the 27th.

 

 

**To: Afghan_Jumper**

If I send you a list of questions about gay male sex, would you answer them for me? DF

 

 

It’s an unexpected question to say the least.

 

 

**To: Death_Frisbee**

Uh, of course. For personal use, or have I brought you over to the dark side of writing gay porn? ;)

 

 

**To: Afghan_Jumper**

There is a possibility it might be relevant to my novel and while I am perfectly aware of the theoretical aspect, you have a talent for making it seem… appealing. DF

 

 

Somewhat surprised, John answers the questions and begins his third National Novel Writing Month.

Even more to his surprise is that Death_Frisbee isn’t charging ahead as usual.

 

 

**To: Death_Frisbee**

Having plot trouble? Want to talk it through?

 

 

**To: Afghan_Jumper**

The plot is not the problem. I plan the mystery for an entire year. It has… recently come to my attention that the character I write cannot continue the way he is and remain credible. Sex must be addressed. Unfortunately that will present difficulties and yet I can’t puzzle my way around it. DF

 

 

**To: Death_Frisbee**

Write it the way you want. It’s not like the whole world is breathing down your neck. Write it the best you can and forget about your audience.

 

 

There is no response but Death_Frisbee’s word count immediately jumps, and John smiles at the idea it might be because of his advice. Death_Frisbee finishes - as traditional by now - ridiculously early, but this time he seems to stick around, and shows an interest in John.

 

 

**To: Afghan_Jumper**

Do you write other things, or just erotica? DF

 

**To: Afghan_Jumper**

Is your work based on experience or just imagination? DF

 

 

**To: Afghan_Jumper**

Would you like me to beta your novel from last year?

 

 

John is amused at this sudden interest and answers as best he can.

 

**To: Death_Frisbee**

Just erotica so far. Maybe other things in the future.

Some experience, mostly imagination. More women than men IRL.

Yes please, I’ll send it over. Do you want me to do yours’?

 

**To: Afghan_Jumper**

I would like you to. I can’t. DF

 

 

\--

 

 

Another eight months pass. John edits his second novel and it’s published, he fills notebook after notebook with ideas (increasingly for non-erotic stories) and grudgingly pays attention to the rumours about Jim Moriarty’s new book.

_‘Seb-BOY-stian?!’_ the Newspapers scream. _‘MALE Romance for Moran?’_

John tries not to think about it. He saw Moriarty’s cold shutdown at the Q and A and assumes it’s probably the news that Sir Owen is back (combined with the ‘men, women, or goat’ comment) that has whipped them into a speculative frenzy.

Surprisingly, Death_Frisbee is still in contact with him. John is increasingly curious about the man, and even though they’ve been messaging for _years_ he knows virtually nothing about him.

He even compiles a list of what he does know:

 

Male

Gay (Possibly?)

Has a brother

Lives in London.

Knows a lot about Jim Moriarty books

Very secretive about his writing.

 

Despite this dearth of information, they never seem to run out of things to talk about. Writing is discussed in great detail (John learns a lot) and books are frequently debated. Often John finds himself reading things that Death_Frisbee has suggested and wonders if, on the other side of the screen Death_Frisbee is checking out the stories he’s mentioned.

Increasingly John itches to ask for a meeting, but if Death_Frisbee won’t even share the title of his books, it seems impossible that he’d agree to meet in person.

“He sounds a bit weird,” Clara says, when John mentions this friendship to her.

They are at the festival (it’s pouring down this year and Moriarty isn’t making an appearance, despite his new book being out, so there’s a bit of a gloom in the air.) John has sold at least three times the number of books he did last year, so he’s feeling a bit better about the whole thing.

“He’s really not,” John explains. “We just talk about writing and books. And sometimes male porn.”

“And you want to meet him?”

“I’m curious.”

Clara rushes off to the second stall to boss another poor writer around. John sits down and goes back to the new Moriarty novel; he’s had it for two days and he’s fairly sure it’s going to become the most re-read book he owns. Sebastian Moran is not (as the papers predicted) in love, but there are extensive flashbacks to his former relationship with Sir Owen. The media storm hasn’t even begun to die down and many people believe that Moriarty’s absence is due to security concerns. Short of James Bond swinging the other way or Harry Potter marrying Draco Malfoy, there could be no fictional coming out more shocking. John is quietly delighted.

It’s not perfect though. The sex scenes are stilted and the love story is weak, as though Moriarty was a little unsure of himself, but then considering his reaction to Moran’s romance prospects before, John’s surprised Moriarty even wrote this much.

“Like it?”

John looks up and right there in front of him is someone who looks familiar.

“Oh! You’re the man from last year,” he says. “One of the few who bought my book.”

He is dressed exactly the same as before, in the same dark coat, but his hair is slightly damp from being caught out on the rain.

John holds up the Moriarty novel. “It’s good, yes. More for what it represents than what it is.”

The man looks oddly upset at this. “So you don’t like it?”

“No, I do… the mystery’s brilliant as always. Jim Moriarty has an amazing mind.” He nods. “What did you think of it?”

The man shrugs as if what he thinks of it is neither here nor there, but he looks somewhat happier.

“I’m John, by the way. John Watson.”

“Sherlock Holmes.” He holds out his hand and they share a warm, firm handshake.

Sherlock reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a copy of the newest Jim Moriarty book.

“I, ah, thought you might like this.”

He opens the book to the cover page and John sees that it’s signed, a signature he’s seen printed in gold on collectors’ editions but never in person.

“How on earth did you get that? Moriarty’s not here and the book’s only been out two days!”

“It’s for you.”

John blinks, suddenly suspicious. “I’m a complete stranger and that book will be worth a fortune. Why would you give it to me?”

Sherlock sighs. “I really thought you’d have worked it out by now.”

“Who are you?” John demands

Sherlock sighs and reaches to take John’s copy of the book from his hands. He flips open the first page and snatches a pen from the table. With one easy movement he scrawls on the cover page and hands it back. John looks at it; it’s a perfect replica of Moriarty’s signature.

“Neat trick.”

Sherlock huffs in annoyance. “Not a trick.”

He snatches the book back and adds a further note. John takes it and looks down at it.

 

**DF**

 

He’s seen those two letters hundreds of times in the last year and the shock that this man standing in front of him is actually Death_Frisbee knocks all thoughts of Moriarty from his mind.

“How did you find me?”

Sherlock’s mouth curls into a smile. “Your agent handed me a copy of your book and I opened it and realised I’d read it before.”

John is almost too shocked to speak. He nods faintly.

“And… the Moriarty thing?”

Somehow Moriarty seems inexplicably tied up in all this.

Sherlock glances around at the other patrons in the tent. They are being entirely ignored.

“The man you saw at the Q and A wasn’t Jim Moriarty. His name is Richard Brook and he’s an actor that my brother – who acts as my agent – pays to be my public face.”

“That’s…“ John can’t even finish the sentence. _Insane. Impossible. Mad._

“Brook is rather unhappy at the moment because he is now the public face of what is now a huge media storm. But your advice was correct: I needed to do what was right for the character.”

“What’s going to happen to Brook?”

Sherlock shrugs. “My brother will extract him from the situation and he can go back to acting, the public will get to enjoy a million conspiracy theories around the true identity off Jim Moriarty, and I can carry on as normal.

“Why are you telling me about this?” John asks.

Sherlock looks uncomfortable. “Because I – we’ve been talking a lot – and I’ve grown to – uh-”

John gets it. He doesn’t quite comprehend the strangeness that’s entered his life, but he understands that here’s a man who has an amazing mind, whose interesting to talk to, and has a self-proclaimed military kink, and he’s standing in front of John lost for words with a pleading look in his eyes.

“How about dinner?” John asks.

 

The End

 

**Author's Note:**

> And they wrote gay detective novels together happily ever after.


End file.
